H.R. 1388

Those of you that know me know that I am not one to send mass e-mails about politics.  Quite frankly I loathe partisan bickering and find both parties lacking in the moral and ethical fiber necessary to do the job which we have elected them to.  That said, when legislation is proposed that is not only damaging to some subset of our country but frighteningly destructive to the foundation on which on entire democracy is built it tends to capture my attention.  H.R. 1388 is one such bill, particularly because it is disguised as a positive way for citizens to perform charitable works.  Scratch a little deeper...and I'm not talking lawyer depths...and you will find a very unsettling message.  Follow the link below and, once you have the bill in front of you scroll down to section 1304, sub-section 125.  Read #5 & 6, where it spells out that people involved in this program will not be able to express themselves politically.  Or # 7 where it spells out the fact that they will be stripped of their religious freedoms.  I had to read this section three of four times before it hit home.  This isn't a question of Republican or Democrat.  I happen to be a registered Democrat who marched against the war, vocally opposes capital punishment and thought our great nations involvement with the torture of prisoners was despicable.  The current administration, with it's partisan congressional majority, is moving forward with the implementation of an experiment that I do not believe most Americans endorse.  I beg you to take a few minutes to read these parts of this bill.  If they disturb you reach out to your representatives in the federal government and spread the word.

http://www.opencongress.org/bill/111-h1388/text

The legislation does not include a mandate requiring service, yet.  

GQ forgets the meaning of the world "Gentleman"...

So everyone has silly, secret pleasures that they indulge in right? Nothing really bad or harmful, mind you. A giant pastry eaten in the car before you pick up the kids. Some inane technological gadget that falls firmly into the toy category. A Celine Dion song downloaded from iTunes. Alright, the Celine Dion could be considered both bad and harmful but you get my drift...right?

For me it's GQ magazine, or at least it was. Why, you ask, would a plump middle aged guy that buys most of his clothes from Kohls bother reading a fashion magazine for men? That's a dynamite question to which I have no answer other than in my dreams I am a well built, suave character with a budget for jeans that are not of the Big Yank variety. I enjoy reading GQ, even though I often find their politics and hedonistic bent tired and uninteresting.

That said, they have crossed the line by joining the current frenzy of Catholic bashing, or more specifically Pope bashing. Isn't it bad enough that we, as a society, have to endure Bill Maher and his condescending brand of humorless comedy? Now we have Gentlemen's Quarterly pontificating on the Pontiff. What gives? Do we really need some "dude" pausing his Harold and Kumar DVD to fill us in on his frighteningly uneducated thoughts about the Pope? Please....tell me what kind of shirt looks good with my argyle socks...tell me what cologne to wear if I'm going to be at the beach on a humid day...I'll even accept you telling me what a great President Barack Obama is...again...and again....and again. I would ask, however, that you not take shots at my religion or religious leaders in a failed attempt at comedy. Lame does not begin to describe this latest sophomoric rant.

You can find the link on the bottom of the page:
http://men.style.com/gq/features

I'm not sure if writing a letter or starting a boycott is worth the effort as jaded, hip people don't seem to be interested in opinions outside their own ranks. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to wear a plaid, polyester suit while mock reading an issue of GQ in a public and trendy place. Sadly, as I am an uninteresting everyman I don't know of any trendy places. Is Studio 54 still around?

I don't know. I'm outraged...but not surprised.

Cooking at Nan's

While paying a visit to my grandmother...a/k/a Nan...a/k/a Angela...my cousin Chris experienced a pleasant, emotional flashback brought on by the glorious smell wafting out from a bubbling pot of gravy (i.e. pasta sauce for the 'Mericians).  It brought happy memories of his mom, Sarita.  She was a very special person, true beauty both internally and externally.  For the record that's not some cliched, compliment for a lost family member...it is meant most sincerely.  The gravy recipe triggered thoughts of coming home to his childhood home, his mom at the stove making the gravy for supper.  Chris, and his sister Maria, decided that learning how to make this gravy would be a day well spent and a wonderful way to feel a connected to their mom.  I set up the particulars and bought the meat...they did the rest. 

For the record I do not eat meat but the verdict was this gravy was 92-95% accurate to their mom's.  They were very happy...but who wouldn't be when your eating a big plate of pasta with family.

So, Chris and I set off to Nan's house to meet Maria and of course...Nan.  Joining us there were my sister Sara, stepmother Claudia, cousins Peter and Matthew, aunts MaryLou and Millie, and my aunt's husband Peter.  

Aunt Millie is an interesting one.  Born Amelia, she was Millie our entire lives until about 4 years ago when she announced that she was Amy.  The bizarre part was that she denied that she had ever been called Millie.  It was as if the entire family had forgotten the name we used when addressing her.  Amy assured us that no one, at any point in her life, had called her Amy.  She was quite serious as well.  We tried to be serious, as well, but after a while just went back to calling her Aunt Millie.  Every so often she resurrects the Amy conspiracy.  Perhaps the next time she does we will all announce that we wish to be called by another name.  I always liked Horace.

Chris videotaped the entire session and I think Maria is going to transcribe the recipe, however, for the blog's sake I'm going to take a stab at it.

~  Nan's Gravy  ~

1.5-2 lbs Sweet Sausage

2 lbs Chopped Meat (Beef, not lean)

3 Cans Tutto Rosso Crushed Tomatos (green can)

5-10 Cloves of Garlic

Stale Bread...or Breadcrumb in a pinch

3 Large Eggs

1/2 Cup Grated Parmesan Cheese

Parsley

Olive Oil

Black Pepper

Fennel Seeds

Dried Oregano

Dried Basil

Place the chopped meat in a large bowl with the stale bread (or breadcrumbs), eggs, parsley, Parmesan and black pepper.  Mix it all up well and form into small, gold ball sized, balls.

Poke a few holes in the sausage and place them in a large pot with about 2 Tbs of Olive Oil.  Cook over medium heat until all sides are brown.  When you turn the sausage for the final time toss in the garlic, chopped but not minced.

While the sausage is cooking you can cook your meatballs in a frying pan with a small amount of Olive Oil.  

When the sausage is cooked add the crushed tomatos, and small amounts of the fennel and dried spices.

When the meatballs are cooked add them into the pot with the gravy.  

Cover and cook for at least an hour...two is better.

Check your seasoning and serve with spaghetti.  

Mangiare!

Restaurant review - #1 - Nobu

Last year Jill received a very generous gift certificate to Nobu.  I would say that for her it was comparable to Charlie finding the golden ticket in his Wonka bar.  She was very, very excited and to be honest so was I.  The name Nobu is held up as the pinnacle of Japanese cuisine and we were so geared up to climb that mountain.  Sadly, it was more of a dusty hill.   

My sincerest hope was that I would be writing about our experience with culinary ecstasy but what we had was just really good, utility Japanese food.  Had we been at any other Japanese restaurant I think we would have both left pretty happy.  However, when you go to a restaurant that is lauded as the top in it's field and you drop a good amount of money, even with a gift certificate, the bar is understandable raised.

The most positive part of the Nobu experience was our waitress who was very down to earth and genuinely friendly.  I can't say the same for most of her peers who came off aloof and a little condescending.  

We started with a Bamboo container filled with Hokusetsu Daiginjo sake, served iced cold. Very refreshing and crisp on the palate.  After our initial excitement at being able to recreate a scene from Gilligan's Island every time we filled up our little bamboo cups, the rustic carafe lost it's allure and just became a pain to pour.   

As both Jill and I are familiar with Japanese cuisine and enjoy new experiences we decided on the Omakase, which is chef's choice.  We've done this before, most notably at Sushi of Gari 46, and enjoyed every adventurous bite we ate.

It seems at Nobu the chef is very conservative and just picks the restaurants most popular dishes for people.  Maybe he sized us up and thought we were too New Jersey to go for a true Omakase experience.  Maybe he had a bad day and was just in a lull of creativity.  Whatever the case it was generally dull, with a few glimpses of brilliance.

The first dish out of the gate was outstanding by any standard...Bigeye & Bluefin Toro Tartar. The small mound of caviar on top of the little molded, sushi was exquisite.  It looked as good as it tasted and it tasted like Heaven.  Jill and I shared a look similar to people about to share the most exciting point in a roller coaster ride.   Unfortunately the thrill our bodies were braced for never came.  Instead they served us Fresh Yellowtail Sashimi with Jalapeno.  The fish was sliced very thin and was super fresh but the sauce combined with a cilantro leaf on each piece quickly took this dish to the furniture polish zone.  You didn't taste the fish at all, and even the zing from the jalapeno was lost.  The first cracks in the Nobu facade were starting to appear.  The final cold dish that we were served was the Kumamoto Oysters with Maui Onion Salsa.  The oysters themselves were perfect but the sauce...eh...nothing to write home amount.  I would have served the oysters plain with just a few fresh lemon slices.  At this point we were a little let down but hope springs eternal.  On to the hot dishes.

The first dish out was a micro greens (the name annoyed me but it might have been the music) with a few slices of fish.  Again, good but utterly forgettable.  Before we had come Jill's friends had recommended the Shrimp Tempura, which was supposedly served with a killer sauce.  They bumped us up to Lobster Tempura and said it was even better than the shrimp.  What can I say?  Tempura should be light and crunchy, this was soggy and drowned in sauce.  I have no idea if that's the way it was supposed to be served, if the chef had an accident with his sauce vessel or if the dish sat under warmer lights because we weren't eating fast enough.  I don't know the answer nor do I care.  It was the turning point for us and we knew it with the first bite.  Our eyes shared the same look we shared when we were looking at houses and realtors would take us into some overpriced cottage.  Hmmm...something's not right.  There was a little redemption with the next dish, Black Cod with Miso.  Yes, I think they might have saved the night with this one.  The meat was seasoned beautifully and cooked to tender perfection.  Every bite of this dish was like waltzing on a dock in a small Caribbean fishing village as steel drums play Mozart and the woman you love has her gaze fixed on your eyes...past your eyes...into your soul.  Yes, it was that good.  But instead of building on that crescendo they tossed us down on to the rocks with the main sushi course. 

5 pieces of very fresh, but very boring sushi.  I'm talking one long, rectangular plate containing five rice dollops each with a piece of fish on top.  That's it.  Oh no, a little wasabi and a little ginger on the end.  The ginger had the same wilted look that the stuff they sell in Stop-n-Shop with California rolls has.  I looked at it with horror then I looked at Jill and my heart broke for her.  She had the same look that little Ricky Schroder had, in “The Champ”, when he realized his father was kind of a loser.  This was not the meal she had envisioned or, dare I say, fantasized about.  We weren’t expecting a lot of sushi, mind you, but we thought there would be some unique presentation...maybe some daring selections...something...anything...I mean....this is Nobu!  When the waitress took our plates we looked at each other in disbelief.  Surely, she’d be back with at least one more piece that would knock our socks off.  Nope.  Nada.  

They quickly brought out this tapioca, coconut, lemon in a shot glass thing that neither Jill nor I really liked.  The flavors clashed and the big giant tapioca were like chewing some type of rare spider egg that had been imported from the Amazon river region.

Was there any chance the dessert would save the lackluster meal....maybe???  No such luck.  I swear that I had the same Bento Box dessert (a warm chocolate souffle) at a Chili’s in Oshkosh one time.  It was so run of the mill.  Not sure if someone made it onsite or if they just bought a gross on sale at Restaurant Depot.  It was the punctuation to the entire meal.  Lame....lame....lame.  I’m not kidding, these are the same desserts that are on the menu at most Houlihan’s, save for the fact that they cost three times as much here and come in a little Japanese Bento box.  

Did we build this restaurant up in our minds?  Yes.  Is that fair?  Also yes, considering their reputation and their prices.  If you want to experience a truly magical Japanese meal I would highly recommend Sushi of Gari 46.  There was not one area where they do not completely eclipse Nobu.  Also, before I forget, the background music at Nobu was some kind of obnoxious Rave-fest.  I felt like the bass drum was literally next to my head pounding in the over simplistic quarter note rhythm.  Not conducive to a relaxing meal at all, but the perfect complement to the “resting on our laurels” fare that Nobu was serving.

Fat Onion...

After a month of planning we shot a video for Fat Onion.  Actually John shot the video and I bought the bagels.  Which were very good.  Everybody commented.  I got the good cream cheese too.  

Anyway...just a few still shots...more to come...

Terrified...

Some families share an addiction to alcohol or physical abuse, which can span multiple generations.  My family has never struggled with anything quite as serious, but by no means interpret this as a testimony of normalcy.  

Genetically, it’s all about the scare.  Not a simple “Boo”, mind you.  I’m talking about the uncontrollable urge to bring people you love to the brink of physical harm or a Syd Barrett mental breakdown.  

I was unaware of the depth of the sickness when I was a kid.  This was most likely a self imposed ignorance because if I had allowed myself to really dwell on it I probably would have been much more neurotic than I am already.  Earliest I can recall is that at least once a month my grandfather would ask me to get him something from the basement.  He knew the anxiety that these requests brought me but would assure me that he would wait at the top of the steps and keep any monstrous harm at bay.  It never dawned on me to ask him why he just didn’t go down himself.  As soon as enough time passed for me to make my way into the bowels of the basement the lights would go off and the dark silence would be penetrated by a deep, guttural moan.  My grandfather’s scare noise was very different from my father’s.  It was elaborate, pained and super legato.  Finally a flashlight illumined figure would emerge, hunchback formed by pillow, inching closer until I screamed, cried or both.  Then he would immediately revert back to the quiet, cool cat that was his usual facade.   As I’m writing this I know it sounds a little twisted but he really couldn’t help it.  Trust me...I know. 

The first documented episode took place in the mid-50s.  My grandfather bought an expensive mask of the Frankenstein monster.  He woke up very early one morning and went up stairs.  My father and uncle shared a room.  There were two ways in.  Normal people would enter through the door but the closet actually was connected to a hall closet.  I can remember crawling around in there when I was young.  My grandfather entered the hall closet and came out in the bedroom.  His two sons were fast asleep, innocence still intact, as he emerged from the closet, expensive monster mask in place and the groan coming from a place very deep in his chest.  The story goes that my father cried but my uncle slipped into hysterics.  It took my grandmother an hour or so to get him fully under control.  She was alternating between comforting her poor son and yelling at my grandfather.  In a swirl of confusion, anger and fear my grandfather ripped up his mask.    

My father and uncle were chips off the old block.  The awe inspiring chops that caused so many nightmares as a boy were honed on each other throughout the 60s and early 70s.  My uncle was good, but my father’s mind was much more elaborate and equally devious.  In 1971 my uncle set out with some friends to see the Allman Brothers play the Fillmore East.  An infamous show of it’s own merit but what happened after the show, back in Queens, that’s the real stuff of legend.  Before he left my uncle made a dire mistake.  He shared, with my father, the fact that he and his friends were going to be expanding their minds with a chemical compound known only by three letters.  My father pounced.  Although he was not an active member in the counter culture he knew that my uncle and crew would still be peaking when they arrived back home, in the wee hours of the next morning.  After my uncle left, my dad went to work. He assembled a small cast of friends that came up with an amazing freak out.  First they splattered ketchup all over the bathroom...I have no idea where my grandparents were but they were definitely not home.  They had my father’s friend John lay in the corner of the bathroom, face paled with makeup, ketchup stained razor in hand shaking over a faux blooded wrist.  He supposedly was moaning in a hushed, whisper tone.  When the happy concert goers came home my father complained about what a drag the night was.  He explained that John’s girlfriend had broken up with him and he was an emotional mess.  After a few minutes he asked my uncle to go see what John was up to...he had been in there for almost a half an hour.  I wish I could have seen the mayhem that followed.  There was screaming, crying and some very bad vibes.  Legendary.  I’ll never be able to pull anything off on that scale.  

Of course there was retribution but not a scare sadly.  Briefly it involved a young lady keeping my father up for a few days until he passed out from exhaustion at which point my uncle and friends covered him, head to toe, in Vicks.

One final bit of history is how my father concluded this sibling rivalry.  It’s much less intricate but in no way less amusing.  It started when my uncle and his girlfriend retired to his room.  After their personal time was over they both fell asleep.  My father entered the room with his favorite scare prop...a stocking over the head.  He quietly went over to the bed and put his capped head on the night table.  Then he started with his scare noise.  It was an amazing sound that I miss almost as I miss the man who made it.  Very different than my grandfather's...it was a much simpler and airier “Ahhhhhh”.  Delivered in my father’s soft baritone, it was almost soothing.  Ahhhhhh.  Ahhhhhh.  My uncle opened his eyes, looked at my father and then closed his eyes again.  Failure.  My father was very upset.  He never actually said he was upset but I know I would have been.  As he started to get up, stocking half off his head, my uncle levitated and let out a blood curdling scream.  The whole thing happened too fast for anyone to really process but my father reacted to my uncle’s wailing by shouting in terror himself.  Do I even need to add that the poor young lady was brought to tears by the whole incident?  I mean, her naked boyfriend screaming in the face of another man, himself screaming and with a stocking half on...half off.

To date I have fought the urge to scare my son, in the same way that I spared my sisters when they were little.  All of my scaring needs are satisfied by friends, in particular my cousin Chris.  Of the many times I’ve made his heart skip a beat the best, by far, was the time I got him in the middle of cleaning his bathroom.  The trick...you see...to the perfect scare...is when you move in for the kill.  Chris was cleaning his bathroom, half in/half out.  His back was turned and I crept up very slowly.  When I was close enough to hear his breath starting to get a little fast I waited.  Just another moment more.  Just at the point when his stiffening body told that he was aware there might be someone on the room with him.  The fear was already pulsing through his veins.  As he started to slowly turn I pounced.  My scare noise is like Lon Chaney’s Wolf-man after drinking a few double espressos.  It’s fierce, staccato and completely lacking finesse but it works.  This was evident as Chris body sprung backwards about 5 feet throwing him on to his bed where he laid painfully clenched and whimpering.  For a moment I actually thought I gave him a heart attack.  I know...I know...very cliche but I’m not exaggerating.

In case you’re wondering about me, can I still be brought to tears by a groaning hunchback in the basement?  Very definitively, yes.  My wife need only call my name from another room at night and I am totally freaked out.  A few years back we were sleeping.  It must have been 2am or so, and I had a dream that I was single again...back in my old apartment...asleep in my bachelor bed...alone.  When my wife turned over my brain registered it as someone, or something, sneaking into be with me.  Even asleep I am an easy scare.  I jumped out of bed, threw the lights on scaring the life out of her.  In my groggy daze I stared at my confused wife and said only one word, “Terrified”.  Story of my life.

Standing in the shower thinking

To blog or not to blog.  

Although I'm pretty sure Shakespeare would have been a mad blogger, I have reservations about engaging in it myself.  I'm intrigued by the general idea but at times feel like people put up way too much personal information to gain an audience.  That, in itself ,is bad but if you post all kinds of skeletons and it bores the crap out of everyone...a million times worse.  We all hold out hope that people would love our inner selves if they could meet them.  "Well, the perception that I'm a dullard is really just a symptom of my shyness."  And if it's not?  Do I face the fear of being a big, fat snoozer head on?  What price am I willing to pay to be interesting?  Both questions are rhetorical, obviously, because here I am Mr Virgin Blogger...all fired up and ready to go.  For the record I will not divulge anything I wouldn't openly talk about in person.  I have no interested in the protection of the e-veil...but I am willing to give this a whirl.  Hopefully someone will find even the faintest shred of interest in this....if not...you do know I'm hiding back all the juicy parts back for my tell all book...don't ya?